


Rockabye (spin me round again remix)

by Zooey_Glass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kamikaze Remix, Other, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-24
Updated: 2009-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooey_Glass/pseuds/Zooey_Glass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Don't you want more?" is what he wants to say, and he already knows that Dean doesn't. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockabye (spin me round again remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Buildings and bridges (the rockabye remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682) by [Zooey_Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooey_Glass/pseuds/Zooey_Glass). 



> Remix of [The other side of the line](http://gretazreta.livejournal.com/7238.html) by Gretazreta. Also an alternative take of my own fic [Buildings and bridges](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3682), the remix of Greta's fic I wrote for [Kamikazeremix](http://community.livejournal.com/kamikazeremix/). This is the original idea I had for that fic, but when I started writing I wound up going in a completely different direction. I still had the Wincesty version in my mind, though, and while I never managed to get it to work in quite the way I intended, I did eventually write this version.

Dean always winds up on top, flushed and triumphant for one moment before Sam pulls him down, fitting their bodies hard and urgent against each other, and it's so much an extension of everything else they are that the question is never how they could have started doing this, but how they could _not_.

Then they wind up at Bobby's to find the letter waiting for Sam, a whole other life laid out on its pages.

Sam already knows which one he's going to choose.

The fight with Dad is easy, a scaled-up version of the fights they've had every time they've moved these past few years, every bid Sam's made for normal. It's easy in its familiarity, even when Sam feels it step up a gear, knows they're both going to say something unforgivable. He'd expected that.

Afterwards, sitting in the treehouse with Dean tense and unhappy opposite him, he realizes he'd never thought about having to say the unforgivable thing to _Dean._ He can't meet his brother's eyes as he says, "We can't go on like this, Dean. We just... What would people think if they knew?"

"I don't care," Dean declares, whispered bravado, challenging him to disagree. Or maybe to agree, Sam doesn't know. "I don't care what everyone else would think."

Sam's mouth tastes like ashes. "I do."

Dean recoils like he's just been punched, his back against the wall, and Sam wants to take it back, tell him it's a lie. He wants to tell _himself_ that it's a lie, that the only reason he's doing this is because it's the right thing to do. But he knows the truth - that he can't match Dean's passionate defiance.

_Or maybe_ \- he thinks - _maybe it's just that you_ **_won't_**. And that's the real truth, he knows: that he'd be ready to do it, to say _Fuck you_ to what the rest of the world thinks about things like this, if it didn't mean giving up everything else. But he wants all those other things - wants to go to school and live in one place and have a real job and a real life.

He doesn't want the life he's got, even if that means not wanting Dean either.

Dean's still looking at him, face closing down as Sam's words sink in, and it's too late to take them back even if Sam wanted to. They fill up the whole treehouse, suffocating.

Sam gets up, slow and painful, and goes to the trapdoor. "It's not _you_, Dean. It's just -" He can't finish. _Don't you want more?_ is what he wants to say, and he already knows that Dean doesn't.

When Sam looks back over his shoulder, Dean hasn't moved, hands pressed flat against the smooth wood of the floor. He doesn't come back to the house until nearly dawn.

* * *

"Dapple-dawn-drawn," Jess says dreamily, staring up at the criss-crossed branches and leaves. She's warm along Sam's side, relaxed.

"That was a bird," Sam points out, shifting a little closer.

"Still." Jess sucks in a mouthful of smoke and leans over, sealing her mouth over Sam's. A lock of her hair escapes its pin and brushes softly against his cheek.

"Still," he agrees peaceably, when he's got his breath back. He knows what she means, green shadows and brighter spots of sunlight dappled across their skin. A hint of dampness is creeping cold through his shirt, but he's too relaxed to care. It's easy, lying here with her.

"Did you ever read Peter Pan?" Jess asks. She takes one last hit off the joint before snuggling closer to Sam, creeping under his arm. He notes with amusement that this means he's the only one who'll be getting wet. "At the end, after Wendy and all the Lost Boys leave, Peter has the Wendy-house put up in the trees, and that's where he lives on his own. I always loved that idea."

"I had one once," Sam says.

"What, a Wendy-house?" He can hear the grin in Jess' voice.

"No, a treehouse." He's already regretting saying it, doesn't know why he did, except that he's high and relaxed and he gets tired of lying.

"Really?" Jess scootches round, propping herself on one elbow so she can look at his face. "That's so cool! What was it like?"

Sam smiles in spite of himself. He can tell her this. "It was awesome. It took me and Dean most of one summer to build it; we even put in a window - we salvaged a door off an old truck, so you could wind it up and down."

"Awesome," Jess breathes. "I wish I could have seen it."

"Yeah," Sam says, and he's suddenly overcome by a wave of homesickness, picturing the treehouse so vividly he can almost feel the wooden boards under his back; feel Dean's lips against his own. He pulls Jess closer, crushing his mouth against hers instead, pressing in close to assuage the ache of longing for things he can't have.

That summer, he tries building her a treehouse. But without Dean, he doesn't know where to begin.

* * *

After they burn Dad's body, Sam smells smoke for days. He feels like it's sunk into his skin, acrid smell overlaying everything else, and he knows he can't really be smelling it, but he does all the same.

"Don't be stupid, Sam," Dean says when Sam asks if he feels the same, and goes back to pretending everything's okay. So Sam knows he smells it too.

It's not a big surprise that Dean's not coping well with their dad's death. Christ knows Sam's not coping, and he knows it's got to be a thousand times worse for Dean. But that's just it: Sam's barely holding it together, and he's not sure Dean's even noticed.

That's the bit that scares him the most.

"What did you do with my car?" Dean asks suddenly, three days into their stay at Bobby's, and Sam feels his heart almost stop with relief.

"It's in bad shape," he warns, leading Dean out to where Bobby has the Impala propped up on blocks. It still hurts to look at it, the torn, crumpled chassis too reminiscent of how Dean looked in that hospital bed.

Dean just looks at it for a long time, face expressionless. Then, abruptly, he pushes up his sleeves and lifts up the hood, and half an hour later he's on the phone, calling one of Bobby's contacts to see if they can track down some new parts for him.

Dean working on the Impala has to be a positive sign, but he won't let Sam _help_, not with the car or anything else, and Sam finds himself drifting aimlessly around Bobby's place, unable to settle to anything. There's work he could be doing - plenty of it, after their trip to the Roadhouse - but instead he has to go after Dean, can't resist pushing. He tells himself he's doing it for Dean's sake, but he knows it's just as much for himself. The truth is, he doesn't know how to be okay if Dean isn't.

The sound of Dean's frenzied assault on the Impala carries to the orchard; dull, heavy blows that make Sam's shoulders hunch reflexively at each one, as though they're falling on him. When the noise finally stops Sam stays where he is, back pressed against the smooth bark of an apple tree. The leaves are all off the trees, and a sharp, fresh smell rises from the wet ground where they've fallen, stronger than the smoke smell that's been with Sam for days.

He concentrates on breathing, soaking the smell up while his eyes make geometric patterns out of the branches silhouetted against the sky. One branch has something flapping from it, the stray movement interrupting the pattern he's making. After a while, Sam realises that he's looking at a strip of tar paper, ripped free from the roof of their treehouse and caught on a nearby branch. He looks for the rest of the treehouse, propped ramshackle in the branches of the big ash tree. Bobby took care of it for a while, Sam knows, but it doesn't look like he does anymore.

Sam steps closer, taking in the places where wood's shifted and bowed, the rope ladder hanging rotten and frayed from the doorway. The structure's still sound, though.

He turns away, back to the house. He'll need to borrow some tools.


End file.
